Goodbyes
by Asidian
Summary: Two funerals, years apart.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: This is my first Big Hero 6 fic. This movie made me cry, and made me laugh, and it really deserves more fanfic. I thought I'd contribute; I hope you enjoy.

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><p>Goodbyes<p>

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><p>Hiro's three years old on the day of the funeral, an unruly child with an unruly shock of thick, black hair.<p>

His Aunt Cass has been up half the night with final arrangements – reservations and attendance, a thousand and one ordinary considerations in circumstances that are anything but ordinary. Hiro knows none of this. He knows only that when his Aunt helps him slip his arms into the sleeves of his new black jacket, his hair hasn't been brushed yet.

Most mornings, it's part of his mother's routine. She sits him down on her lap, and she smooths her fingers through it, and she laughs and says, "It's like a bird's nest," or "How on _earth _you get it this tangled in your sleep, I'll never know." She pulls the brush through slow and careful, so the knots don't snag.

Hiro loves his Aunt Cass. She's great fun, always full of energy – but she doesn't fix his hair the same way. Hiro hopes his mom will be back in time to do it this morning.

He knows that his parents are gone, of course. Aunt Cass told him. So did Tadashi.

But Hiro is a clever boy, for his age. He knows that his parents are never gone for more than a day or two when they dress up fancy and leave for what Tadashi calls "date nights." On those days, like now, he and Tadashi sleep over at Aunt Cass' place, in the spare room up the stairs in her café. They share a bed that's filled with air, but maybe they've come over often enough, because yesterday Aunt Cass was talking about getting them real beds.

Hiro doesn't see why they need real beds. He likes to bounce on the one that's filled with air, and it's been good enough till now.

When his jacket's on, Aunt Cass ties a slip of black cloth around Hiro's neck, beneath the collar, and she smiles at him, eyes watery. She says, "You're such brave boy, Hiro."

And Hiro says, "Uh huh. I went down the slide by myself last week." He grins a gap-toothed grin at her, half-anticipating an objection from Tadashi. He's not supposed to go down the slide by himself; his big brother says it's too dangerous. But no objection comes, and his Aunt Cass kisses him on the forehead and turns away. As soon as she does, small fingers are already reaching for the tie, working it loose.

The quiet chime of the doorbell comes, and Aunt Cass wipes at her eyes. She says, "Tadashi, keep an eye on your brother, please?" Then her footsteps are on the stairs, slow and steady, all the way down.

"C'mere, kiddo," Tadashi says. He's tall for an eight-year-old, long in the face. He looks very grown up in the slim, black lines of his suit, and his eyes are red and puffy. "Let's fix your hair."

Hiro throws himself down onto the air-bed – springs back up with the squishy buoyancy of the thing. Tadashi doesn't say a word about how Hiro's going to let all the air out, like he usually does.

Downstairs, the sound of Aunt Cass' voice comes in soft waves, too low to make out words.

"Who's here?" Hiro asks, as Tadashi wets his hair down with water. The prongs of the brush slip in and snag briefly, but his big brother works his fingers in down by the scalp to reduce the tug, just like mom does.

"Mom and dad's friends," Tadashi says, after a minute. "People who want to say bye."

The motion of the brush is smooth and steady, with only little hitches now and again as Tadashi undoes the tangles.

"_I'm_ not gonna say bye," Hiro announces. "I don't want to."

Tadashi's hand stills. He rests the palm, warm and gentle, on the crown of Hiro's head.

"No one _wants_ to, Hiro." There's a sound, like Tadashi's throat is working – like perhaps he means to say more. But nothing else comes, except for a strange, soft huff of air, like his brother's breathing funny. A few seconds later, the brush resumes its motion.

It keeps moving, even and careful, long after the resistance is all gone. It keeps moving as the doorbell rings downstairs, again and again, and Aunt Cass speaks in hushed tones that barely reach their ears.

It keeps moving until Tadashi says, "C'mon. We'd better get going."

When Hiro turns to climb down off the bed, the little boy that greets him in the mirror is pale and neat, with hair that's slick and tidy, combed back from his face.

He catches a glimpse of his brother, there beside him in the reflection, and sees that Tadashi has been crying.

Down the stairs, the world is full of people in black. They touch Hiro's shoulders or hold his hands, and they talk about how hard it must be. Hiro doesn't see what's supposed to be so hard.

He stands next to Tadashi as they lower two long, black boxes into the ground. Tadashi's fingers are clenched tight on his own, and they shake.

Much later, when Hiro's skin smells like soap from the bath and he's wearing his robot-print pajamas, Aunt Cass kisses them each on the cheek and pulls up the covers. "Good night, boys," she says, as her finger flips the light switch. "If you need me, I'm right down the hall."

Tadashi's arms wind around Hiro when she's gone, wiry but strong. His big brother bends his head to rest his forehead against the collar of Hiro's pajamas.

"I went with dad to pick these out," he says, voice muffled, into the tiny figures of the robots. "Last Christmas."

"They're neat," Hiro tells him. They're his favorites, actually; once they'd been in the wash at bedtime, and Hiro had cried his eyes out and refused to sleep without them. He runs his thumb over the soft fabric now, over the deep purple of the cloth and the intricate grey parts of the constructs in the foreground.

It's warm, here, in the spare room over the café. The blankets are close around him, and he can feel his brother's heartbeat, a steady, muffled rhythm. Tadashi's hair is smooth and clean, pressed against his cheek. They've both been allowed to stay up late, seeing out guests, and Hiro can already feel sleep starting to tug at him.

"Tadashi?" he mumbles.

His brother shifts a little, pulls back enough so that Hiro can see his expression in the dim lighting. "Yeah?" Through the cracks of the window's closed blinds, the lights of San Fransokyo filter in, splashes of white and color against Tadashi's face.

"When're mom and dad coming home?"

He doesn't know what he expects. It's certainly not to see his big brother, who always has the answers, fall apart like cereal sitting too long in milk.

Tadashi's face crumples, and he bites his lip. Then he starts to cry: long, ugly, wracking sobs that Hiro thinks will wake Aunt Cass for sure. The arms around Hiro are shaking.

"They're not," Tadashi gasps out. "They're _not_."

Hiro thinks of long, dark boxes going down into the earth. He thinks of Aunt Cass, red-eyed in her pretty black dress. He thinks of his mother's fingers in his hair, working out the snags oh-so-carefully.

Hiro closes small fingers on the back of Tadashi's pajamas, and he holds on as tight as he can. And he wishes, for the first time, that he'd said goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: ...wow. I am officially the worst. I'm sorry in advance. I think this is going to need another chapter, after all.

Thank you so, so much to the folks who read and commented.

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><p>Goodbyes - Chapter 2<p>

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><p>Hiro is fourteen years old the day he visits the funeral parlor with his Aunt Cass, a gangly adolescent in a t-shirt and jean shorts in defiance of the chill, foggy morning.<p>

He sits in an overstuffed chair in a musty room with thick curtains, legs dangling and head bowed. Down the hall, Aunt Cass speaks with the funeral director, tones hushed. She thinks that Hiro is out of range, but he can make out just enough; the words burrow into his mind and take up root.

There's not enough left for an open casket.

That's what the funeral director says.

Not enough left, the boy thinks, and wonders before he can stop himself how much exactly that entails. He remembers the heat from the blast, scorching on his face. He remembers the sight of the flames, orange and wild, thick smoke curling up into the night sky.

He imagines what a fire like that could do to a body – imagines rescue crews, hours later, collecting scraps of burnt bone.

On the plush, moss-colored velvet of the chair, Hiro's hand curls into a fist. He ducks his head down a little further, and he swallows. He isn't sure whether it's because his throat is tight or if it's to fight down the bile that's suddenly stinging at the back of his mouth. Maybe both.

"Hiro, honey," says his Aunt Cass, and he starts a little at the sound, glances up to find her there beside him. "You ready?"

He nods and stands, tucks his hands into his pockets and falls in behind her.

"Ms. Hamada," says the funeral director, warmly, and shakes Aunt Cass' hand. "I'll be in touch." Hiro wonders how long he's been practicing that tone, that carefully crafted sympathy. How many people have sat in this room with its stupid green chairs and heard that there wouldn't be enough left for an open casket?

"You take care, son," he says to Hiro, and Hiro bites his lip and stares at the man, and _stares_ at him, until at last the funeral director breaks eye contact and looks away.

He exchanges a look with Aunt Cass, who tells him, "He will." Then finally they step outside, onto the sidewalk in a grey San Fransokyo morning.

Aunt Cass' café is dark and empty after the trolley-ride home. The closed sign faces forward, and there behind the glass of the counter, row after row of sweets sit, uneaten – stale now, doubtless.

Hiro makes for the stairs, but Aunt Cass' voice stops his escape. "We're going to have the funeral in two days."

The boy pauses with one hand on the railing, shoulders hunched. "Yeah?"

"I thought you might want to say something." His aunt smiles, and Hiro catches it out of the corner of his eye. It's a tired expression, and it makes her look her age. "You know, at the service."

"I dunno, Aunt Cass," says Hiro, and puts one foot on the bottom step. "I'll think about it."

He starts to walk up, hopes she'll take the hint.

"Well," she says, "let me know."

He's at the top of the staircase when he tells her, "Sure," but Hiro knows his answer already. He doesn't want to say goodbye.

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><p>Wasabi lends his car to Aunt Cass the next day, and Hiro slumps into the passenger seat for the drive to San Fransokyo IT. She parks on the west end of campus, so Hiro doesn't have to see the black stain left by the fire or the last remaining scraps of rubble, waiting to be cleared away.<p>

She rolls down the windows, all four of them, when he says he doesn't want to go in; the sun has burned away the morning fog, left behind a sky that's startlingly blue. "If it gets too warm, you can walk around a bit," she tells him, and leaves the keys.

Hiro knows he should be helping, but he can't bear to carry out Tadashi's things, one armful at a time. He can't step into that bright, clear space where his brother was so proud – can't remember his own excitement, the way possibility had seared like electricity beneath his skin.

Hiro's had the thought before, lying awake in bed: that if he hadn't been so enamored of the school, they would all have been at home the night of the fire. If he'd been satisfied with his own small dreams, they would never have gone to the Showcase, and Hiro would still have a brother.

The car grows warm and then hot as he waits, but Hiro ignores the change in temperature, rests his cheek against the plastic curve of the car's door. He watches the weeds that have pushed through the cement in the parking lot, and he folds his arms over his chest, and he tries not to think.

In time, Aunt Cass reappears with Gogo. They've found a push-cart, and spread out on its metal shelves are the remnants of Tadashi's workspace: tools and microchips, wires and unfinished parts. Aunt Cass and Gogo open up the back of the car and pack up his brother's life, one piece at a time.

The very last thing they lift into the trunk is the robot that was supposed to help so many people.

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><p>"Pork chops tonight," Aunt Cass tells him later that evening, standing in the doorway of the room that he used to share with Tadashi. She has the plate in her hand: meat shiny with citrus glaze, mashed potatoes in a fluffy white mound, carrots a splash of color in the corner.<p>

Hiro looks it over, and all he can think of is Tadashi at age eleven, a slim and considerate boy with a chunk of carrot on a fork, telling his stubborn little brother, "C'mon, kiddo, just try a bite. You're gonna give Aunt Cass grey hair."

Hiro swallows, and he reaches out to take the plate. "Thanks, Aunt Cass." He puts it down on his desk, sets the fork carefully beside it.

"Did you think about tomorrow any?" she asks him, hovering.

Hiro shrugs. "Kind of," he says. "I'm gonna pass, if it's all the same to you."

"Whatever you need, sweetie." She gets an arm around him and squeezes, and when he doesn't duck away, she adds the other arm. Hiro rests his forehead on the collar of her shirt, and he closes his eyes.

"Y'know, Aunt Cass," he says after a minute. "I'm not feeling very hungry. I think I'm gonna go to bed early."

She holds him a moment longer, and when she pulls back, her eyes are wet. "How bout I leave it here," she says, "just in case you change your mind?"

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><p>The next morning, Hiro pulls his arms through the sleeves of his new black jacket, stiff and mechanical.<p>

He fumbles through the knot of his tie, but he forgets to brush his hair.

At the service, Aunt Cass talks about what a kind boy Tadashi had been. Fred swears the world of science has lost its brightest rising star. Honey Lemon gets halfway through the speech she's written before she has to stop because she's crying too hard.

They put Tadashi into the ground next to parents Hiro doesn't remember. The earth is dark and rich, and when it starts to rain, the cemetery fills with the sharp, fresh scent of grass.

Later, at home, Hiro strips off his wet dress clothes and lets them fall into a damp pile on the floor. He puts on jeans and a t-shirt, and he tries not to be aware that the contents of his brother's workshop line the wall like an afterthought, crammed in wherever they'll fit.

It's all wrong, Hiro thinks. Tadashi would have straightened up by now.

So Hiro sits down on his brother's bed and sorts parts. He puts like wires with like, lines the tools up on the rack hanging in the corner. He finds the binder where Tadashi keeps his microchips in clear plastic sleeves, and he files them by the labeled contents.

When he's finished, the only thing left is the robot, its squat, compact form a cherry-red block against the wall. Hiro lets it stay. He thinks that maybe Tadashi wouldn't mind if it were on display.

Aunt Cass comes with dinner, and she takes away the breakfast he hasn't touched. Hiro thumbs through an electronics magazine that doesn't interest him and then lies down on his bed, on top of the blankets. He lies there with his eyes dry and burning until the grey afternoon light slipping in through the blinds is gone, replaced by the neon of a city at night.

He doesn't know what time it is when he finally stirs, but the sounds of Aunt Cass in the kitchen below have long since ceased. Outside, there is only the occasional rush of a passing car.

Hiro stands in the darkened room, and he walks to the place where Tadashi used to sleep. He sets his brother's hat aside, and he lies down on the neatly-made bed, face in the soft cotton of the pillow case.

He thinks of an air mattress, barely remembered, and of purple robot-print pajamas, and he doesn't know why. When the sobs start, they are long, ugly, wracking things that Hiro thinks will wake Aunt Cass for sure. So he muffles them in the soft swell of his brother's pillow, bites down so hard that the only sounds to escape are quiet huffs of air.

And for the second time, Hiro wishes he had said goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: This is the last of it. Thanks so much for sticking with me!

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate. I'm thankful, among other things, for the folks who took the time to read and let me know what the think. You're all awesome. o/

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><p>Goodbyes - Chapter 3<p>

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><p>Hiro is sixteen years old on the day he graduates from San Fransokyo IT, a lanky, narrow boy with an unruly mop of black hair.<p>

He sits with his friends in Aunt Cass' café and eats the special lunch she's prepared to celebrate: pulled pork sandwiches and imagawayaki stuffed with custard. Hiro's loud and lively – proud when he admits that six different schools are courting him for their master's programs. He knows already, though, that he'll stay on at SFIT.

When Honey Lemon snaps a group picture, he grins gap-toothed and wide, then leans in to see the result. The screen is full of laughing faces, crowded with the white bulk of Baymax in the background. "Hey, send it to me?" Hiro asks, and an instant later his phone buzzes, telling him that she has.

Later, when everyone's gone home and the dishes are clean, Hiro tells Baymax, "Keep an eye on Aunt Cass for me, kay?"

Then he climbs the stairs back up to his room and puts his navy blue graduation gown on over his clothes – retrieves the diploma from where it sits rolled on his desk.

Hiro collects other things, too: newspaper clippings and data chips; old pictures and his dissertation on Kirchoff's Laws; the spaceship-racing sim he programmed at 2 am on a weeknight and a sample of the reinforced plating for Baymax's wing tips. He packs the last of the pulled-pork sandwiches in plain butcher paper and fills a travel mug with lemonade, then stuffs everything into his backpack.

"I won't be back for dinner," Hiro reminds Aunt Cass, and gives her a one-armed hug on his way out the door. His other hand is full; it's holding his graduation cap.

She smiles at him, a fond look that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "You better be back by nine. Gamera versus Megalodon is on."

And Hiro laughs, and says, "You know me. Would I miss _that_?"

He catches the train to the suburbs outside the city limits, where the skyscrapers are backdrops against the rolling California mountains. He finds his way with the help of an app, walks through unfamiliar streets lined with trim houses and bare-trunked eucalyptus, their graceful white limbs rising toward the sky.

The grass in the cemetery is as plush and fresh as the day they put Tadashi in the ground, and there's a spray of flowers by his brother's headstone, yellow and white. They're from Aunt Cass, Hiro knows. She still comes here once a month.

"Hey," says Hiro, and slings his backpack down from his shoulders. "Guess who's a BS in mechanical engineering?" He rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "Been pretty busy, I guess."

He clears his throat, awkward, and bends to unzip the bag. "I meant to make it out here sooner. I've been saving up, though." Inside the backpack, the newspaper clippings are on top, a clump of crumpled paper bound together with a rubber band. Hiro takes them out, then sits down cross-legged in the dew-soaked grass by his brother's grave. He puts his graduation cap on the ground beside him.

Then he unrolls the first article and starts to read.

He reads about the Tadashi Hamada building, with its sleek lines and energy-efficient design, dubbed SFIT's new robotics wing. He reads about six mysterious new tech-inclined heroes, who helped rescue the crew of a fishing boat last year when it capsized in the harbor. He reads about the Lucky Cat Café, declared last week by a notoriously harsh critic to have "the best pastries in San Fransokyo."

There are thirteen articles, and Hiro reads them all. He pauses between each, to fill in details they didn't include: the band that had played at the building's opening ceremony, and the sky over the harbor that afternoon, and Aunt Cass' victory dance when she'd first seen the review.

When he's finished the last of them, he pulls out the data chips, a spray of color in a plastic bag, and lines them up side by side on his knee.

Hiro talks his way through everything in the backpack. He talks until the sun dips down over the silhouette of the city – until his throat is dry and his cheeks are wet. Then he stops and unwraps the last pulled-pork sandwich. He eats it there in the cemetery, and he drinks the lemonade, and then he goes right onto the new plating for Baymax's wings.

The sun's gone down by the time he's finally finished. The chill in the air off the bay makes him glad he brought a hoodie, and he pulls it on now, on top of his graduation gown, before he starts to repack the bag.

"Well," Hiro says, as he scrubs at his eyes. "Aunt Cass wants me back by nine, so I better get moving."

He stands and stretches out the stiffness in his legs. "I just wanted to say, though. I meant it, that night." Hiro swallows. "Thanks."

He picks his graduation cap up off the ground: navy, with a tassel in gold. San Fransokyo IT's colors. He combs the tassel to one side, the proper side, because he's sure that it would matter to Tadashi.

Then he sets it down on his brother's grave, next to Aunt Cass' flowers. "Wish you could've been there," he admits, very quietly, into the stillness of the graveyard.

And with that, he turns to start the trip back home – a small, dark figure under a sky filled with stars.


End file.
